REVIEW - AFTER THE FALLOUT - SURVIVORS OF THE NEW DAWN BY GRACE HAMILTON

  

Title: After The Fallout
Series: Survivors Of The New Dawn
Author: Grace Hamilton
Publisher: Relay Publishing
Genre: Post Apocalyptic, EMP
Release Date: 13th August 2025

BLURB
The world has gone dark. And now danger lurks in the shadows…

After a massive EMP attack cripples the West Coast, civilization collapses overnight. Claire’s only focus is finding her sister Lydia—before it’s too late. With chaos erupting around every corner, Claire is forced to team up with the last person she ever her ex-husband. But in a world without rules, trust is a luxury they can't afford.

Meanwhile, miles away in the remote wilderness, Lydia awakens in the wreckage of a plane crash—alone, injured, and pregnant. But this isn’t just any pregnancy. Lydia is carrying a child for one of the country’s most powerful and ruthless families... and now they want her back. Alive is optional.

Armed with nothing but the survival skills their father taught them, the sisters must navigate a landscape where the only thing more dangerous than nature is the people still left in it. Their reach the family’s old homestead and ride out whatever’s coming.

The road to each other is dangerous—but it’s the only one worth taking.

Goodreads Link 

REVIEW
The cover depicts a scene from in the book quite well and is eye-catching enough to stand out on a book shelf in a store, so I think it does its job well.

I have read other books, different series by this author so I am always eager to check out anything new she releases, so was excited to start reading After The Fallout.

Lydia has been kidnapped and is shackled to the luxury airplane seat she is sitting in, relying on the kindness of a co-pilot for a sip of a drink. The brute of a guard who is watching her doesn’t care and even argues about removing her shackles to allow her to use the planes toilet. Lydia doesn’t think things can get any worse for her, she is pregnant, the baby she carries isn’t hers. She naively agreed to be a surrogate for the rich, powerful and ruthless Hartley family. They have decided they want her where they can see her and keep an eye on their baby. The brute of a guard finally relents and releases her from her constraints so she can go to the bathroom, Lydia looks around to see if there is anything useful that may later aid her escape but there is nothing of use, just when she thinks she is doomed, things go from bad to worse and the plane suddenly loses power and has to be crash landed into a lake in the wilderness. Lydia and the co-pilot survive the crash landing, now they need to survive the harsh landscape and get to civilisation, but with Lydia being 4 months pregnant and co-pilot Danny having an injured leg its going to be a slow and painful process. Lydia plans on getting to her father, Rob’s farm/homestead where she left her son Bobby.

Meanwhile Lydia’s sister Claire is at the divorce lawyers office with her soon to be ex-husband Alejandro, when suddenly the power goes off and there is chaos with a vehicle smashing through the lawyers office window heading towards Claire, but Alejandro pulls her aside and saves her. Claire has had a mysterious text from her sister from a plane and if all the powers and technology has stopped Claire worries her sister could be hurt and alone so she plans on going to find her. When Alejandro offers to come along she agrees but when he gets involved helping others around them she tells him she is going home to pack and she will not wait forever for him! Claire knows that when army veteran Alejandro see someone who needs help he finds it hard to walk on by. Claire also doesn’t know how Alejandro will cope with the surrounding chaos as he has PTAD from serving in Afghanistan. Claire sets off on her own and is attacked, a man called Malloy saves her just as Alejandro arrives on the scene. Malloy says he is a park ranger, is heading in the same direction and he will help them find Lydia. Of course Claire jumps at the offer, but Alejandro and his service dog, Dusty are wary of Malloy, wondering if he can really be trusted?

Rob Turner, Claire & Lydia’s father is well prepared for almost anything, he can easily live quite well off-grid. Rob is the type who keeps himself to himself but he eventually “warms up” to his teen grandson Bobby, teaching him how to do the many chores about the place. When the grid goes down and his somewhat irritating neighbour comes snooping around in his car that is still working, Rob gets rid of him, hiding the fact he is injured due to a recent fall whilst trying to repair a roof. He doesn’t want anyones pity, help or advice. However, when Bucks wife Sandra has a fall and is seriously hurt, he finds himself gathering his first aid supplies and patching her up as best he can. After this Buck & Sandra and Rob & Bobby create their own little family and could live quite happily but since the chaos theres a group in town who have formed a militia and taken over Big Eds shooting supplies, most of Allendale and seem to want to take over more of the area too. Initially Rob and his group try to keep their distance but when Sophia the daughter of the leader of the group turns out to be friends with Bobby via the homeschool network, they slowly become reeled in. Especially when Sophia turns up scared, battered, and bruised they immediately offer her a safe haven which of course ramps up the tension with her father and those on the Carrington Farm.

There is plenty of action and hardship such as the plane crash, bear attacks, lack of food and other dangers along the way. The two sisters manage to meet up along the way and finally make it to their father’s home just in time for the fight against the Carrington Farm Militia.

I really enjoyed reading this one, there’s plenty of likeable characters and some not so likeable. I hope I haven’t revealed too much about the book plot but without revealing some details it is difficult to review the book thoroughly. I hope this encourages you to read the book for yourselves. Though the characters do go through danger and hardships it isn’t all doom and gloom, I adored the nickname that Lydia has already given the baby she is carrying and becoming increasingly attached to, “Little Guac”. I adored the rekindling of the romance between Alejandro and Claire who were in the process of getting a divorce but due to the EMP crisis never signed the divorce papers. Theres also romance between Lydia & Danny and a teen romance on the horizon between Bobby and Sophia. I also loved the amusing, sometimes insulting banter between Buck and Rob who soon call a truce and become firm friends or as Buck insists become family after Rob & Bobby help Sandra. I agreed with Alejandros feeling towards Malloy I felt weird vibes from him even though he “saved” Claire, there was just something about him, you couldn’t quite put your finger on. Another character I had mixed feelings about was Agata, she immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion about Lydia, Danny, Claire and Alejandro and stalked them, warning shots are fired that then get out of hand and one character is shot and killed. Despite this Agata is asked if she wants to join them on their journey. In one way I wanted to hate Agata for killing an adored character, yet when she apologises and you look at things from her point of view and the circumstances they are all in you can’t help but feel a little sorry for her.

My immediate thoughts upon finishing the book were that After The Fallout is a great start to another potentially enthralling post-apocalyptic series by Grace Hamilton.

Summing up the book has fantastic characters that you couldn’t help but become attached to. Theres both good and bad characters, some I was glad to see killed off, one was an accidental shooting and such a shame as it ended a budding romance for two characters. I really loved and enjoyed the family dynamics between Rob, Bobby, Lydia, Claire and Alejandro. Despite being the cause of one of my favourite characters demise I can’t help really liking Agata and can see her fitting in with the wider “family” group that includes Buck and Sandra.

I’m definitely eager to read more and am intrigued as to where the family will go if they leave the family farm, maybe back to Agata’s farm? Maybe there’s a romance on the horizon for Rob & Agata. At this stage in the series there are so many ways the plot can take the characters.

 

 

BLOG TOUR - COVER GIRL BY AMY ROSSI

  

"Thrilling and glamorous as its runways and backstage parties, The Cover Girl is also heartbreaking and redemptive with an ending that made me cry. Birdie is a singular, unforgettable character whose story encapsulates so much of what led up to the #MeToo movement, and why the movement was so necessary."
—Ana Reyes, New York Times bestselling author of The House in the Pines 

Title: Cover Girl
Author: Amy Rossi
Publisher: MIRA
Release Date: 5th August 2025

BLURB
Find them early enough, and they will always be her girls.

Birdie Rhodes was only thirteen when legendary modeling agent Harriet Goldman discovered her in a department store and transformed her into one of Harriet’s Girls. What followed felt like the start of something incredible, a chance for shy Birdie to express herself in front of the camera. But two years later, she meets a thirty-one-year-old rock star, and her teenage heart falls hard as he leads her into a new life, despite Harriet's warnings. Then, as abruptly as it began, it’s over, like a lipstick-smeared fever dream. Birdie tries hard to forget that time—starting over in Paris, in the dying embers of the LA punk scene, in Boston at the height of the AIDS crisis. She’s not that person anymore. At least, that’s what she’s been telling herself.

Decades later, Birdie lives a quiet life. She works modest gigs, takes Pilates and mostly keeps to herself. Maybe it’s not the glamor she once envisioned, but it’s peaceful. Comfortable. Then a letter arrives, inviting Birdie to celebrate Harriet’s fifty-year career. Except Birdie hasn’t spoken to her in nearly thirty years—with good reason.

Almost famous, almost destroyed, Birdie can only make her own future if she reckons with her past—the fame, the trauma, the opportunities she gave up for a man who brought her into a life she wasn't ready for. Just like she’s not ready now. But the painful truth waits for nobody. Not even Birdie Rhodes.

For fans of My Dark Vanessa and Taylor Jenkins Reid, this striking debut novel explores the dizzying fallout of being seen and not heard in a high-stakes industry that leaves no silhouette unscathed.

PURCHASE LINKS
HarperCollins page
BookShop.org
Barnes & Noble
Amazon

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 

Amy Rossi received her MFA from Louisiana State University, and she lives in North Carolina, by way of Massachusetts, with her partner and two dogs. The Cover Girl is her first novel. 

AUTHOR LINKS
Author Website: https://amyrossi.com/
Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/mossyair.bsky.social
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/amyrossiwriter/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7216078.Amy_Rossi

 

EXCERPT 

I do not receive the sort of mail that comes in thick cream-col­ored envelopes. Sometimes junk might mimic the size, the color of personal correspondence, but the envelope is never linen. The cursive address block is always black, always slightly pixelated. If it wasn’t for the violet calligraphy looping into a name few people call me anymore, I’d think this delivery was a mistake on the part of the mail carrier.

I ease the envelope flap open with a pearl-handled letter opener. I paid someone to clean out my parents’ house after my mother died, and she sent me a box of things she thought I might like to have. Jewelry, mostly, but also some truly ridicu­lous items like opera glasses, a Christmas card from Pat Nixon, who my mother adored, and this letter opener, which I use in tribute not to my mother but to Barb, who spent forty-six metic­ulously accounted-for hours sorting through drawers neglected over the rise and decline of several technologies. I imagine how she must have seen me: This woman who’d rather pay someone to clean up her past seems like the sort who wouldn’t want to risk a paper cut opening her mail.

The letter opener does its job, revealing, of course, an invita­tion. A startling thing, given that I’ve cultivated a life that does not require x-ing little cards with my preference for meat or fish. My friend Bobby’s wedding three years ago was the first one I’d attended since the ’90s, and it will probably be the last.

Fifty years of glamour, the invitation declares. You are cordially invited to join us as we celebrate Harriet Goldman and the careers she launched. And a smaller card, separated from the invitation by vellum yet still bound to it with a gold cord: As one of Harri­et’s Girls, you will be a special part of this gala event. And finally, a handwritten note: Hope to see you there! Therese.

Therese! My god. How is she still around? Even Debi retired to Prince Edward Island with her wife and is having the time of her life, which she has completely extracted from any ten­tacle of the industry.

At the time, I admired Debi for this. I still do. Then again, if she were here, she would have warned me.

Pilates stance: heels together, toes apart. The same as first po­sition in ballet, not so different from the Y position one would take at the end of a runway before the turn, or in a photo to angle the hips just so. Nearly every reformer class begins the same way. Lying on the machine, pelvis neutral, heels touching with the balls of the feet on the foot bar, knees as wide as the hips. We’ll move into other foot positions, other movements, but it always comes back to Pilates stance. The pose of my life.

Today, though, is jump board class. I hadn’t realized the Wednesday afternoon session had switched from the regular sculpt class when I booked, wasn’t paying much attention to anything but the gala invitation. “You’re going to have so much fun with this,” the instructor, Caro, says as she shimmies the board into the end of the reformer.

It’s been years since I’ve taken a jump class; I am fairly certain I will not have fun. All the defined, elegant movement—the return to my body, the escape—that I can retreat into during a regular class is off the table with a jump board. There’s some­thing unsettling about being on your back and bouncing up and down on a tiny trampoline, two movements that do not go to­gether. It feels like an illusion.

That’s a lie.

It feels like a loss of control.

I try to keep my mind on my core, on my pelvic floor, on the flexibility in my ankles as we warm up our bodies and joints for the jumps. I try to enjoy the weightlessness as I spring off the board, try to remind myself I will come back down. Caro walks us through a series with our feet parallel, with our feet in Pilates stance, with one leg raised.

“Now when you push back,” she says, “I want you to scissor one ankle over the other three times, starting with the right. I know, it’s a lot. You’ll have to move fast to fully articulate your foot position at the bottom.”

I look up to watch her demonstrate with her arms and I keep my chest lifted to ensure my own proper positioning. My legs, long and lifted, toes pointed as one ankle crosses over the other.

Like a good girl. Like a memory.

The feeling crashes over me as quickly as the reformer bed jolts back home. The sound of the machine, the sound of my knees hitting the board. Everyone is looking; everyone is al­ways looking. I am here but not, and still, it is the same silent stares as before.

Caro rushes over to check on me and the equipment, but I’m already on my feet, murmuring a jumble of words that hopefully amount to an apology. It is possible I’m still whispering that I am sorry by the time I am in the car, by the time I am fum­bling my key in the door of my home, by the time I am pour­ing a chilled glass of Sancerre to wash it all away, by the time I am no longer sure who or what I am apologizing for.

I take a breath because that’s what you’re supposed to do in moments like these, take a breath like I am performing Woman Who Must Recenter Herself After Freaking Out In Public. The role of a lifetime. One breath, then another, and then I take a photo of the invitation and text it to my friend Bernice. Ber­nice who lives in New York, where it is already 9:00 p.m. Ber­nice who is so busy that our phone dates require planning and a spot on her calendar so her assistant does not accidentally book over them. Bernice whose name lights up my phone ninety seconds later.

“What are you going to do?” she asks. No time for greetings.

I tell her I don’t know. It’s in September.

“That’s barely enough time to get work done!”

My laugh comes out in a dry bark. But this is why I adore Bernice—she understands where my mind goes first, even if it’s not the most flattering place, because her mind has been molded in the same way: around our appearance.

“Well,” she says. “You don’t have to decide right now.”

We both know, though, that the deciding isn’t the only prob­lem. It’s everything else—the peels and fillers and history and emotions—in between.

Bernice has to go, has to return to dinner. I don’t mind; we’ll talk more later. What matters in this precise moment is that someone else knows. And I am here, breathing my breaths, feeling the cool tile under my feet, feeling the sweat of the wine bottle against my palm.

I am still here.

But then again, so are all the me’s I’ve been. Those girls and those years have, quite literally, piled up as a stack of portfolios in my living room.

In modeling, a tear sheet is currency. It’s exactly what it sounds like, a sheet of paper, torn from a magazine, and also more. It is proof that a model exists. You tear yourself away from the pages you worked so hard to float among so that you may have another page to tear later.

I built myself from my tears. The magazine pages and before too, from the beginning. Each tear means something. It has to. For example: birth is a kind of tear, and if that sounds too dra­matic, too much like fumbling for a connection between two different things, tell me what to call it, then, when a woman barely has time to feel what’s growing inside of her for what it is before the baby girl comes thrashing out. No bond, no hand hovering over fluttery kicks, no dreams of her looking more like Mom or Dad but as long as she’s healthy. She is—healthy enough, at least. At first.

Each tear said it louder.

I am here. I exist. Better than before.

Your active portfolio doesn’t get longer. Quality over quantity. A solid life philosophy. You rotate pages out, keep them current. The old ones I moved into a different binder. Even though I never open it, I still have it. The proof. And what need do I have to look when I can still see some of those pictures so vividly.

The first shoot, sweet thirteen and never been anything, all big hair and party dress dreams.

The first bathing suit, a year later, no hips, all legs. A pout, nothing yet to put behind it.

Three pictures later, something behind it.

Tanned, hairless thighs. Sunbaked hair removal ad. Later, a commercial.

A fashion show: the wedding dress walk, just a year past old enough to legally wed in the state of California. This bride was crying.

Hint of a smile, face hidden by hair. Truth hidden by face. You’ve come a long way, baby.

Empty years.

Hands smoothing anti-aging cream.

Made into a woman as a girl, then broken into parts once womanhood became too real.

I could say this is the summary of four decades but that would be too simple. Every picture tells a story is a cliché until it’s not.

Excerpted from The Cover Girl by Amy Rossi (c) 2025 by Amy Rossi, used with permission by HarperCollins/MIRA.

 

 

 

 

 

REVIEW - ALL WE'VE LOST - THE UNRAVELING BY KEVIN CRAVER

Title: All We've Lost
Series: The Unraveling
Author: Kevin Craver
Release Date: 4th August 2025

BLURB
Far from home at the world's end ...

Army sergeant Martin Crenshaw counts down the days in Germany until his discharge. Teenage music prodigy Melinda Hodgson performs her summer away at arts camp in the Michigan Northwoods. Kara Westman, the daughter of a decorated two-star general, begins her sophomore year at the prestigious London School of Economics.

They had their entire lives ahead of them—until the merciless one-two punch of economic collapse and the deadly H7N9 pandemic destroyed everything.

Stranded and alone, they set out into a shattered world to make their way home. Martin and other marooned servicemen trek across a devastated Europe in a race against time to reach a boat heading back to the States. Kara catches the last flight out of a dying United Kingdom only to find that her powerful father can do nothing more to help her. And Melinda embarks on a dangerous odyssey to reach her family in Wisconsin before winter descends to snuff her life like a candle in the wind.

The third book in the riveting Unraveling series, All We’ve Lost continues the thrilling post-apocalyptic survival saga that explores the question everyone should ask themselves in these troubled times—what will you do when it all falls apart? 

Goodreads Link 

REVIEW
The cover design of All We’ve Lost is a great depiction of a scene from the book, of Melinda and Jimmy on their bikes as they try to reach safety with people they know. The cover fits in very well with the other book in the Unraveling Series.

After reading and loving Big Sky Fallen and Cascadia Rising I was looking forward to reading All We’ve Lost, learning about other characters in different areas but set in the same world that is crashing down.

All We’ve Lost follows different groups of survivors of a devastating pandemic and the following economic collapse as they fight to make it home, not knowing if their loved ones are safe or even if their home even exists anymore.
The first group of survivors are four men from the Outlaw Troop, Fourth Squadron, Seconds Cavalry Regiment. Sergeant Martin Crenshaw, their leader, was due to retire, but ends up being promoted to Lieutenant during his groups journey through Germany, Belgium and France in their attempt to get a boat back to America. The men with him are Specialist Josh Czernik, Specialist Theo Carlvin, and Specialist Patton Childress. The civilian who ends up joining the military men on their arduous journey is Ann-Katryn, Patton's pregnant German girlfriend.

The second 'group/person' is Melinda Hodgson a student attending Interlochen Music college when disaster strikes. Melinda suffers losses along the way and also gains a dependent, in 8 year old Jimmy who has become an orphan due to the virus which is really ironic as his parents were quite prepared to be able to live off-grid with plenty of supplies on hand. Melinda later stumbles across one of the other groups and joins them.

The third “group” is the group that Melinda stumbles upon when confronted by a biker gang called the Devils Warriors. The group is made up of ex-military personnel and preppers. The land once known as the Moran Farm belongs to Donna Moran and her late husband, though since the collapse of society it is now referred to as “the compound” Donna’s son Will and 18yr old grandson Ethan live there with her along with the group that has formed consisting of people like Gunnar, his fellow former SWAT sniper Lucasz, and ex-marine, newlyweds Jane & Justin Christenson and Al Leonard a ham radio operator and his grandson Kyle, among others their Golden Retriever, Buck and the Belgian Malinois, Reaper that belongs to Gunnar. They are a tough group and everyone has their job to do within the compound. It may be Donna’s land but everything is put to a vote. So, when Donna’s estranged daughter Ashley shows up, looking for a place to stay with no real skills to add to the team as well as all the family history she is given a bag of basic supplies and sent on her way towards Iron Point.

When the local Police Chief Milo Beecher & the village President Bud Alworth turn up at the compound wanting access to the supplies they have, it is obvious that Ashley has given them information. Donna and the other compound members send the Police Chief and President on their way empty handed and an order to not come back. Unfortunately for those at the compound, Iron Point initially becomes aligned with the biker gang the Devils Warriors and it cut throat leader Razor, and then taken over. Its not long before Razor and the Devils Warriors set their sights on the Compound. Though they don’t want to take it from Donna and her group, they just want control and access to the supplies and want Donna and her group along with people from Iron Point to work as slaves for them! Obviously, Donna and her family group at the compound are not going to just accept this, so a battle ensues.

The final “group/person” is Kara Westman whose father Major General Jack Westman, pulls strings in an attempt to get his daughter safely transported to him, Theres a plane ride from London that is re-routed and then travel from army base to army base. Major General Westman certainly seems to be a respected member of the military with people willing to help transport his daughter Kara, though Alexia initially resents “Babysitting the Major Generals Princess” but along with her fellow RAF member Reed they kind of warm to Kara. That and they think of the possible goodwill/reward that may come their way from Major General Westman.

I don’t really want to go further into detail about the plot of the book as I don’t want to give too much away. I hope the taster/teaser from each group/person that is central to the book is enough to make you want to read it. If you’ve read Big Sky Fallen and Cascadia Rising then All We’ve Lost is a must read for you. The books in the Unraveling series can be read as standalone books but of course I’d recommend reading them all! Be warned you will not want to put this book down. I was immediately pulled into the book within the first chapter, totally hooked and hated having to put it down! If you love Post Apocalyptic books, that are realistic and have characters you grow to love and can relate to then you need to read these books. The plot of the book, the pandemic and financial collapse are scarily believable, the way people act in such situations, so realistic.

I loved the humour within the book. I love the disclaimer at the start of the book!
Some of references went a little over my head a little, such as “Calling Doctor Howard, Doctor Fine, Doctor Howard!” Three Stooges reference.
I also adored Dulcy’s reasoning for “looting” the sporting goods store when they come across it, Melinda is reluctant to do but Dulcy reasons with Melinda as her stomach rumbles and she & Dulcy argue about whether to break into the sporting goods store and Dulcy says '“My point exactly— your gut just vetoed your conscience. Now let’s do this and scram— in and out.”
I found the three gnomes holding up their middle finger at the entrance to Donna's compound in Wisconsin hilarious, and certainly to the point, a very clear message.

I thought the references to 'you'll be a man, my son' at the end of a Kipling poem {IF by Rudyard Kipling} to be very poignant and really relevant to that moment in the book.

My immediate thoughts after finishing reading All We've Lost by Kevin Craver were Wow, there were some harsh character losses in this book, but that made it all the more realistic. It has amazing characters, a brilliant plot & fantastic world building!!

Summing up All We’ve Lost is so well written, the detail, the characters you grow to love who are fighting for survival, some make it, others sadly don't. It's a realistic portrayal of what could happen. It makes you realise how under prepared you would be!

 

 

BLOG TOUR - THE DEAD COME TO STAY BY BRANDY SHILLACE

  

A delightful new cozy crime novel from the award-winning author of the "twisty, engaging, and thoroughly unexpected" (Deanna Raybourne) The Framed Women of Ardemore House 

Title: The Dead Come To Stay
Author: Brandy Shillace
Publisher: Hanover Square Press
Release Date: 5th August 2025

BLURB
An amateur autistic sleuth. A wry English detective. A murder case that thrusts them both into the wealthy world of the rare artifacts trade...

Jo Jones can't seem to catch a break. Trading in city life for the cozy, peaceful hills of North Yorkshire to take over her family estate should have been a chance for a "fresh start.” Instead, she's been driven further into the past than she thought possible -- and not just her own. The estate property is littered with traces of ancestors that Jo never knew existed, including the mysterious woman in a half-destroyed painting – and hints about Jo's late uncle, who may hold the key to her cryptic family history. Then there’s the gossipy town politics Jo must constantly navigate as a neurodivergent transplanted American… And of course, the whole murder business.

When prickly town detective James MacAdams discovers a body in the moors with coincidental ties to Jo Jones, they're forced to team up on the case. The clues will lead them into the wealthiest locales of Yorkshire, from sparkling glass hotels to luxury property sites to elite country clubs. But below the glittering surfaces, Jo and MacAdams discover darker schemes brewing. Local teens, many of them international refugees, are disappearing left and right, and each case is somehow linked to a shady architectural firm -- which also happened to employ the dead man from the moor-side ditch.

What begins as bizarre murder case quickly plunges them both into the black market world of rare artifacts and antique trading... and a murderer who will do anything to cover it up.

PURCHASE LINKS 
HarperCollins
Amazon
Barnes & Noble

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 

BRANDY SCHILLACE is the author of several works of nonfiction, including Mr. Humble and Dr. Butcher. She is the creator of Peculiar Book Club, a twice-monthly live-streamed YouTube show. A former professor of English and gothic literature, she writes about gender politics and history, medical mystery, and neurodiversity for outlets such as Scientific American, Wired, CrimeReads, and Medium. She is also autistic, though has not (to her knowledge) been a suspect in a murder investigation.

AUTHOR LINKS
Author Website: https://brandyschillace.com/
BlueSky: https://bsky.app/profile/bschillace.brandyschillace.com
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/c/PeculiarBookClub
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/PeculiarBookClub/

 

EXCERPT 

The man on the doorstep of Jo’s cottage dripped rainwater; it trickled from wet-plastered hair to overcoat gun flap and onto the overnight bag clutched under one arm. Jo had remembered to say hello, but that didn’t stop him staring at her, all wide-eyed and open-mouthed. He reminded her of a disheveled pigeon after colliding with a windowpane.

“Mr. Ronan Foley?” Jo asked, stepping back to give him entry room.

“I—Yes.” He shuffled onto the flagstone cottage entry. “I—I thought keys would be in a lockbox?”

“Um?” Jo had practiced every opening line, but not this one. She blinked twice. “I have the keys for you. It’s for an attic en suite . . . in my . . . house.”

“You live here?” The way he looked around himself wasn’t entirely complimentary; Jo chose the high road.

“Don’t worry! You’ll have total privacy,” she insisted. That was the point of going through all that trouble of installing a full bath on the second level (including hoisting a freestanding tub through the attic casements, quite a feat when you’re five foot four and one hundred fifteen pounds soaking wet).

“Of course, of course,” muttered Mr. Foley. “You . . . meet all your guests in person?”

Jo decided not to tell him he was her first guest. Or that she’d locked her knees to keep from bouncing up and down with nervous energy. She also fought to urge to ask if he was Irish. In- stead, she dangled the keys.

“The door at the top of the stairs locks with the minikey,” she said. “The brass ones are for the front door and dead bolt.”

“Thank you, Ms…?”

“Jones. Jo Jones.” She smiled, probably a little too much. He had a broad face and smile lines, but he wasn’t smiling now. “Al- ways ask if you can get them something,” Tula had said when she informed her about her decision to rent the cottage. “It’s welcoming.” Wise words from the Red Lion innkeeper and the one person Jo considered a truly close friend. She might have suggested what to offer.

“I could get you . . . something? I can cook. Well. I can warm things up. Actually, I can drive into town and get food. Or maybe you’re thirsty?”

“Tea,” the man said, and of course he would say tea. They were in Yorkshire.

“Yes! Yes, that I can do. And cookies. You don’t call them cookies—but little shortbreads with the jam in the middle?”

Maybe it was the fact that Jo had forgotten to call them tea biscuits, or maybe it had to do with the fact she wasn’t taking breaths between sentences, but the startled pigeon suddenly began to laugh. It worked a change in him, shaking all the stiffness out.

“Tea biscuits. You’re American—you are, aren’t you?” “Erm” was the best she could do, but now, now he smiled.

“Delighted,” he said, shaking her hand. “May I?” He pointed up the stairwell, but Jo looked at his wet mackintosh. Obviously, he needed to clean up. And she should, as they say, put the kettle on instead of jawing at him like an idiot. He hadn’t actually waited for an answer, though, just gave the keys a jingle and disappeared up the stairs.

This wasn’t how she’d pictured her first experience as a host— and she’d run every possible scenario right down to the mise-en-scène. She’d try again when he came downstairs. Better make it a big plate of biscuits.

* * *

Jo hadn’t wanted to rent out her little cottage, but the attic was empty, and her bank account soon would be as well if she didn’t find some work. A year ago when she’d first moved to England, Jo had envisioned herself freelance editing, but that still hadn’t taken off yet. Plus, she had been spending all of her time in the Abington Archive searching for any scant information about her ancestors with the long-suffering elder museum curator, Roberta Wilkinson. Needless to say, it wasn’t exactly a moneymaking endeavor. It was obsession.

But she couldn’t help it: Jo had moved to the Ardemore property last year in a surprise inheritance following the death of her mother, who conveniently never mentioned that her will would leave Jo with a giant crumbling manor home (unlivable), the small cottage attached (slightly more livable) or the gardens upon which they were built, which turned out to be quite famous. The cottage made for a simple, straightforward home that suited Jo nicely, but she’d learned in a hurry that the manor across the hill housed only secrets.

The mysteries of her ancestors William and Gwen, for ex- ample, who had lived in the estate house a century prior. They were lord and lady so to speak; their portraits had hung regally in the estate house as a constant reminder of their strange marriage and even stranger living arrangement with Gwen’s sister, Evelyn. Some handwritten letters revealed that Evelyn and William were having an affair. How much sister Gwen knew about it all was unclear.

Jo had been the one to bring all this to light last year when she discovered, buried beneath the crumbling estate, the remains of Evelyn herself—and the telltale signs of pregnancy etched in her bones. Curiously, no remains of a child were found with her, only a hope chest filled with baby clothes buried in the garden and the letters between her and William.

The questions surrounding the strange love triangle at Ardemore estate a century ago and what exactly happened to Evelyn’s child haunted Jo, but the constant dead ends threatened to drive her mad. Even Roberta, who worked in a museum after all, was ready to let it go.

“Face facts,” said the crusty old woman; the Ardemores had always been a “bad lot” who didn’t care about community, and Evelyn and her baby “obviously” died in childbirth. Time to focus on the better part of the Ardmore property: Jekyll Gardens, about to open to the public in an event that would be historic for the town of Abington.

The kettle whistled and Jo jumped; she usually tried to stop it before the unholy screech. She poured hot water in the pot and steeped; if her sojourn in the north of England had taught anything, it was to never leave the tea bag in.

Her guest was awkward. But so was she. This could work.

She reached into the cupboard for the package of Jammie Dodgers. Jo bought them because, as a New Yorker, “Dodgers” would always mean Brooklyn, even though they had been in LA since 1957. Of course, there was the Artful Dodger, too, from Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist. A silly name for cookies, maybe, but the mix of American baseball and Victorian pickpocket ap- pealed to her sense of incongruity.

She emptied the whole box onto the tea tray, and by the time she reached the living room, the man was standing in front of her. Clean and tidy and now in proper lighting, he offered her the chance for a better look.

Face: full, square at the jaw. Hair: dark and wet, combed back behind the ears. Mud-flecked black trousers had been changed to another pair, also black. Rather baggy. The blue button-down shirt was damp at the collar.

“How long were you standing in the rain?” Jo asked. “You were very wet.”

“Sorry? “Oh. Yes. It’s—I didn’t have an umbrella.” He touched the curl at his temple with a wandering fingertip.

Had she been rude? She held out the plate of biscuits to offer him one. He gave her the smile again. Salesman smile, she thought, but his eyes settled on the Dodgers with evident plea- sure.

“You’re out of the way, living up here.”

“Sort of. We’re close to the trails, though, and you can’t get any nearer the Jekyll Gardens.” Jo flapped a hand toward the window. “You’ll practically be on the doorstep for tomorrow’s opening ceremony.”

That had been the entire point of finishing preparations for renting the cottage by May: the Jekyll Gardens Opening Celebration. Jo may have lost her ancestral home to a fire, but finding out that it was built on a garden designed by the renowned Gertrude Jekyll Well, it was one for the books. The falling-down house at the edge of town had suddenly become a site of national historical significance. The whole National Trust seemed to have checked into the Red Lion inn.

“You’re lucky,” Jo added, hugging her knees in the rocking chair. “I barely got the weblink up before you booked in— otherwise there’d be stiff competition for a room, I’d bet.”

He hadn’t answered either comment, or her attempt at a joke, just chewed a sticky biscuit and drank tea. Jo felt a prickle run down her spine; was she not supposed to make chitchat? Wasn’t that part of hosting duties? He’d looked at the clock twice, but after swallowing, he refocused on her.

“I’m afraid I didn’t know about it. Just traveling through on business.”

“Oh! But you’re here at just the right time! The National Trust is opening the garden tomorrow — it’s where the manor house used to be. Big party!”

“Sorry, a manor? I didn’t see anything nearby . . .”

Jo jumped up and joined him by the window, pointing to the dark distance. “Well, you can’t really see it from here. But just beyond the trees is Ardemore House. What was once Ardemore House, at least.”

“So, it’s a ruin?” her guest asked, and gulped his tea.

“Well, it is now. It was deserted for almost a century. The property was supposed to be in the care of my uncle Aiden in the nineties, but he never really tended to it. Didn’t even live here, in fact.”

Jo looked up to see her guest gaping at her and stopped short. “So you are a newcomer to Yorkshire, then?” he asked. Jo al- most laughed. He wasn’t exactly hanging on every word, was he? “A yearling, I guess,” she admitted. “I came here to start over after my divorce and the death of my mom last year. I didn’t realize inheriting the estate would be so . . . complicated.”

She felt herself at risk of rambling again, so she pulled out her phone and flipped to her photo library. “Here’s the Ardemore House before. Here it is after the fire last year, still smoking. I was inside it when it burned down.”

“You—What?”

Jo’s finger kept swiping through the pictures. “That’s the gar- den workmen over summer, and here is the original Gertrude Jekyll plan, and this—” Jo stopped at last on the National Trust page “—this is the announcement of its opening tomorrow! I’m sort of, em—part of the—committee.”

Mr. Ronan Foley looked down dutifully at a bright summer green event ad: open time at 10:00 a.m., official ceremony at noon, under pavilion, rain or shine. He didn’t say anything. Again. And Jo felt her heart hammering. Uncertain about chit- chat, she’d instead launched into full-blown special interest lecture. Nice, Jo.

Or was it her reference to the fire? She’d got used to everyone knowing about all of that; it had caused quite a commotion in Abington. There’d even been interviews for the paper.

“Very interesting.” His eyes roved about the room in a full circuit. Then he smiled, genuinely and wide. A surprised smile. “Well, it would be my pleasure to come.”

Crap, Jo thought. She’d got a hapless rain-soaked business- man who booked the cottage only because he couldn’t get into a hotel.

And now she’d accidentally invited him to the gardens.

“You know, you really don’t have to—” she began.

“No, I do. It’s a wonderful idea. So many locals will be there, new people to meet. You can expect me ” His eyes strayed to the enormous painting over the fireplace even as he spoke. “My goodness. Beautiful painting.”

Evelyn’s portrait. It would be hard to miss. The near-life-size painting took up most of the chimney. The gilt frame glinted, offering the perfect contrast to the moody scene within: a woman with strange, distant eyes, a face simultaneously demure and retiring, fierce and resistant. She sat against a back- drop of flowers—yet the sky was a haze of storm.

“Yes. Evelyn Davies,” Jo said. “An ancestor.”

Do not recite your family history. Do not mention that she was buried under the house.

From THE DEAD COME TO STAY  by BRANDY SCHILLACE. Copyright 2025 by BRANDY SCHILLACE. Published by Hanover, an imprint of HTP Books/HarperCollins.